


Smoke

by Ribbonlette



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbonlette/pseuds/Ribbonlette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shizuo is smoke that always seems to leave, and Izaya has a pile of letters he can't seem to send.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke

_All these cigarette stubs, I have never smoked  
All letters that I have never sent_

_~Cigarettes, by Russian Red_

\----

Papers cover the table, scattered across it in a haphazard pile of words and chaos. A few pictures dot the table here and there, the suggestion of gold the only constant in all of them. The late afternoon sun filters in through the kitchen window, casting the table in a yellowish glow and glinting off of the blade stabbed into the least blurry picture. Drops of red shimmer in the light, obscuring the face of the person in the photograph. A trail of ash leads to the glass ashtray in the middle of it all used, cigarettes and the ash of their previous life filling it to overflowing; it should have been emptied five smokes ago, yet the owner never has been very good at cleaning it out. It is not for him after all.

A black clad elbow leans on the table, occupying the one clear spot on the surface. It props up its owner’s head, a hand pressed to his temple and thin fingers threading loosely through dark hair, pushing it back from his face. Every so often the fingers clench, tugging at the hair a bit before relaxing again. Red eyes stare listlessly at the papers strewn across the table, the bright spots of gold in the pictures, the ash spilling out across everything.

There is still a thin curl of smoke wafting from the stub of a cigarette.

As the man stares beyond these things, eyes unfocused and seeing another image entirely, the light of the room softens. The sun begins it’s descent from the sky, changing the light from a soft yellow to a softer pink, slowly spreading across the table and bleeding into the red of his eyes. He wonders if that pink could wrap him up in the same warmth as the gold he is used to, if it could help him sleep just as much as the ashes in the tray. The smoke is still swirling in the air and he hates it but wishes it would never stop, clings to the hypnotic image that reminds him of warmer moments.

Images of the first swirls of smoke from that cigarette still play in the back of his head. The red glow of a lighter’s flame, the reflection of it in golden eyes, on golden hair. The first inhale and the first fall of ashes against dark sheets, the feeling of contentment stronger than the feeling of irritation of ashes in his bed. Then the cold air of his apartment as the sheets are removed and the smoke moves away from him, taking all it’s heat with it.

He remembers following the smoke out of bed. The cold in the air didn’t last long as he follows the smoke and gold down the stairs to his main room, where the afternoon sun has filtered through floor to ceiling windows to heat up the apartment. Yet even in the warmth of the sun, he feels cold to the bone as his golden smoke continues to walk away from him, ignoring every word he says.

Especially the thinly veiled pleas to stay, to come back to the dark bedroom and keep him warm. 

The papers on the kitchen table weren’t scattered yet. Stacked in a neat pile is a different set from the ones covering it now, a folder of documents, incriminating and left over from before the smoke slipped through his apartment door and filled his bedroom with it’s scent, a remnant of another person in the apartment. Another facet of his life that clashes with the smoke that warms him in the coldest of nights. 

Once the glowing end of the cigarette found it’s way to the kitchen, the proof of his continued work in a hated profession was quickly spotted and ashes were strewn across it along with angry words, colder than the usual heat and just like that the ashtray was full and a fist had connected to his face. Hatred was thrown indiscriminately and blades were drawn, protection from his smoke that likes to burn. Arguments are nothing new, especially related to his work. Disgust and irritation was thrown at him and then all of the warmth was sucked from the room as the apartment door slammed closed.

A hand rubs at a bruised cheek, a soft sigh escaping as the scene is replayed in his head once again. Suddenly, one arm reaches out and violently sweeps the rest of the papers onto the floor. They flutter through the red light of a dying sun and he wonders if maybe they are just as sharp and painful as the red on the tip of his blade or the bruise blossoming red on his cheek. A flash of golden hair still stuck to the table with a blade, followed by the shatter of glass and scattering ash confirms that yes, these papers, so different from the work folder that started this whole mess, can be just as painful as any weapon.

After all, they are letters of truth and the truth of his situation can only bring pain as the dying embers of a cigarette is the only thing he has to remember the smoke that warms his lungs. On quiet nights, deep in the darkness and wrapped in lies, the truth likes to burn him from the inside out. The hatred in cigarette burns on his skin could never hurt near as much as the smoke that curls afterward into his lungs, filling him with the hateful truth that he will always be left like this.

Surrounded by his chaotic emotions in the light of a sunset, alone by his own design.

**Author's Note:**

> the hardest part about this was writing the summary, which still sucks and makes it seem like there should be more i think... but hey, I posted something!! amazing!! bc we totally need more angst right now... haha


End file.
